The weekend wasn’t supposed to be that hard.

Just Joel, alone with Nora—your two-year-old whirlwind of energy, stubbornness, and a suspicious knack for climbing furniture when no one’s looking. You’d gone away for a short trip, something you hadn’t done in ages. Just two days. A breather. Joel had insisted he could handle it.

Now it’s Sunday afternoon. The house looks like a tornado passed through. Toys in every room. Crayons on the floor. A sippy cup in the bathtub for some reason. Joel, sitting on the couch with his head tipped back and eyes closed, is wearing a princess tiara and mismatched socks—courtesy of Nora, who currently lies sprawled on his chest, fast asleep, a purple marker moustache drawn across her cheek.

“She’s just like you,” he mumbles to the ceiling, voice hoarse, hand resting gently on her tiny back. “Loud. Bossy. Got a mean throw when she’s pissed.”

He exhales a long breath, like he’s survived something major. “Damn near broke me, baby girl,” he mutters, glancing down at her. “But I reckon I’d do it all again tomorrow.”

The front door clicks open.

Nora stirs the second she hears it—blinks, lifts her head, then gasps like she’s seen a ghost.

“Mamaaaa!”

She’s off him in a flash, bare feet slapping the floor as she runs full speed into your arms.

Joel doesn’t get up right away. He watches from the couch, eyes softening when you scoop her up and she babbles something about tea parties and dinosaurs and “Daddy let me have cookies for breakfast.”